


Monk by the Sea

by Norachandrabbles (orphan_account)



Series: BoKuroo Week 2016 [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Art Shows, BoKuroo Week 2016, First Meetings, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-05-29 13:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6376504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Norachandrabbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man catches Koutarou's eye; sitting at the same spot, around the same time every day. Being a reserved person, without introducing himself, Koutarou goes out of his way and sits next to this man. Hoping to see the view from the other's perspective, he asks.</p><p>"Do you really see anything, when you look at it?"</p><p>An introverted painter meets a stranger and they exchange a word or two. A brief interaction in their lives, feels like a destined meeting.</p><p>Day 4 : Aged up <strike>or down</strike> AU / <strike>Being dorks</strike></p><p>
  <strong>A huge thanks to my beta writer <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Death_Scimitar/">Cai</a> for their hard work!</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Men Contemplating the Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The work Bokuto produces in this fic are paintings actually done by Caspar David Friedrich; a German Romantic landscape painter and one of my all time favorites. I felt like I was struck by lightning the first time I discovered him 5 years ago and his work still haunts me. The idea of a painter!Bokuto came when I considered writing something like a 'destined meeting/soulmate au', where he is tied to Kuroo through his painting. Nothing in the fantasy realm though, nothing appears on their bodies or the world doesn't burst into colors. The bond is on a symbolic level. 
> 
> I'll be putting one painting done by Friedrich at the beginning and name the particular chapter after said painting. Hope you'll like his work as much as I do.

 

 

The moment his brush leaves the surface of the canvas before him, Bokuto wipes the brush with an old newspaper and dips it in thinner, then wipes it once more. Setting the brush aside, he takes out the pocket watch from his waistcoat and checks the time. It's almost noon and noon means lunch; no matter how much he hates eating, evidently he has to and paint needs to dry in the mean time. He gets up and slowly walks towards the 'kitchen area', a counter that has a sink and a gas stove next to it, as well as cupboards containing the basic necessities for a single man. 

Bokuto was sent to study art as an apprentice of a professor in the University of Greifswald, when he was just 17 years old. His father was a painter too and noticed Bokuto's fascination with Romanticism and dark landscapes early on since he was also always around his dad's friends who were either painters or sculptors. Some of them were from abroad and had brought other artists' works; the only way for Bokuto to get to know a world outside of Japanese traditional ukiyo-e. With a little money and connections, he managed to find scholarship, arranged a place he can stay and, knowing how talented Bokuto is, invested what he had on his little boy. It was not much, though Bokuto was able to live with the harsh conditions. He was always a solitary person; understanding very little German and being anxious in a completely new country with extremely 'strange' cultural habits only increased his isolation but helped him survive. This way, he didn't need fancy clothes or need to spend extra money for going out and socializing. He didn't have the interest either, he would frequently take a piece of charcoal and a 'book' he made himself by stitching sketching papers together with a thread and would just walk for hours from the early lights of day until he notices he cannot see in front of himself or what he draws. 

Endless poppy fields would descend into thick pine forests, Bokuto would feel bewildered with the smell and colors surrounding him. Everything was bolder and more majestic, while Japan was more elegant and colors all so pastel, almost like the scenery was filtered and trapped behind a frosted glass. He would sometimes solely walk around without even touching the papers, rolled and stuffed into his back pocket of trousers, he would sketch the landscape if he felt like it -or animals, if he was lucky enough to encounter one. 

Those 6 years, studying under a professor in the university taught him a lot in technical aspects and enabled him to get his hands on books he could never afford if he were alone. He quickly picked up German and was able to read more on the philosophical range after a year and a half. His professor was also eager to help, they would have short but fruitful discussions during their breaks. The library was one of the places he felt truly comfortable and safe. Even if he was just disoriented, gazing at the garden without actually looking at anything, he would sit at the large wooden chair way back in the corner, isolated from the commotions of the outer world.

Reminiscing about those days always makes Bokuto feel a little excited. Though if he were to be asked back then, he would have choosen the word "distressed", just like a prey, under constant pressure of its predator. He exhales as he takes a bite from his croissant; his teacher's scoldings about his eating habits still rings in his ear, he can't help but find eating a nuisance, an activity he does while waiting for his paint to dry. 

Though, he is observant enough that he actually needs the nutrition, he seems to be getting rather thin. Not that he ever cared about his appearance, he needs his forearms and hands to be in their top condition for control while painting. Sitting on wooden stools for a really long time is also taking its toll on the body, giving him a slight hunchback over the years. Now, he needs to stretch his upper body frequently if he likes to avoid cramps and a sour back keeping him away from the canvas for at least two whole days. Bokuto cannot allow it to happen. He looks at his half-eaten croissant and almost empty coffee mug, decides that it will be in his best interest to go out and eat something decent tonight. For now, he has to do with what he has.

As he sits idly at the table beside the window, drumming his fingers softly but out of rhythm, a sudden wind seeps in through the windowpane, making Bokuto quiver, he huddles into his woolen cardigan. Living in Copenhagen for 3 years after Greifswald has taught him a thing or two about surviving the cold. Later on, settling in Berlin was a relief for his shaky limbs and heating expenses, however the apartment he is living in is in need of some repair. The thought of someone stepping inside his own personal space is aggravating, let alone stopping working, for god knows for how long. His exhibit just opened and he has a commission to finish, an altarpiece for a countess' family altar. Taking out his glasses, he sighs exasperated while rubbing the bridge of his nose. He might try requesting a small atelier he could use personally from the art academy. Since he was elected as a member of the Berlin Academy last year and his works are now being showcased there, Bokuto guesses they would be willing to offer help. 

Just that... imagining moving all his tools to the atelier is enough to turn his stomach upside down. 

" _ Do I despise human interaction? _ " he questions. " _ I didn't even go to the opening of my exhibition. _ " It's true he is skeptical of his surroundings, carefully calculating his every step and mimic, what he lets out and keeps in. His way of acting feels so habitual for Bokuto that he cannot tell apart if this is the natural way for him to behave or he developed something abnormal. The only aspect that stuck with him throughout the years is the sense of that predator, carefully blending in every breath he takes or the simplest of comments others make. No one can blame him for playing safe -if what he does can be considered in that category- he doesn't see any reason to change either. There are times he accepts that his dislike of interaction narrows down his options, just like now, nevertheless communication is not something he yearns. At all. 

" _ What's wrong with interacting only when it's extremely necessary... _ " 

Half lidded golden eyes skim over the street once more, carriages rush from one place to another. He notices how worn out he feels even though all he did was sit.

" _ Well, people are no different." _

A timid knock on the door pulls his gaze out of the window and leads it towards the door. Putting his glasses where they belong, he slowly gets up and reaches to the door knob. 

" _ Ah, _ " He looks down at the boy. " _ the messenger from the academy. _ "

"Hello sir! This was sent to you by the head of the committee, Mister Rugen." Otto beams and kindly extends a letter to Bokuto.

"Mm, thank you Otto." 

He steps back to close the door however, Otto is still there.

" _ Oh, customs. _ "

Bokuto digs down his pockets and gives the grinning boy 3 schillings, watching him jumping around and running off to another errand of his.

Seeing Otto always brings back certain feelings associated to his childhood but no matter how he tries, he fails to remember much from his early years, only some colors and the plum tree's scent in their yard is vivid in his memories.

" _ Now is not the appropriate time to wander off." _

Bokuto needs to cut his own train of thought constantly, otherwise he finds himself sitting and staring at the same spot for hours, to the point of forgetting his daily routine. Now is really not the time, he sits back and opens the letter, wondering about the content.

" _ So it's about paperwork. _ " He clicks his tongue. " _ It's a vicious cycle really... I feel the constant need of being in charge of the things concerning me, at the same time, I would be glad if I could find the courage to trust someone so he could do these obligatory work in my stead.... Ahh, why do I keep expecting the impossible.... _ "

The committee is expecting him tomorrow at the academy, which feels a bit too sudden, considering it has only been a week since the exhibition started. " _ It may be a chance for me to talk to them about the atelier. Or maybe I should postpone repairing until I can catch my breath from all this. _ "

At any rate, he has to wear 'decent' clothes while going out and it is a bigger concern for Bokuto. He takes out the brush from the drawer next to his bed and brushes the dust collected on his dark petrol green tailcoat that has been long forgotten, hanging on a hook at the back of the door, connecting the room to a small hallway. Later on, he starts polishing his black leather boots, humming the melody he heard over during one of his obligatory events. Even though he is pretty much fond of music, big concert halls are the places he avoids like a plague. He sometimes cannot keep himself from going over to the hall, find a suitable place to enjoy from outside, as much as he can hear and right before it ends, before the streets swarm with loud chattering and carriages roam, he fleets off to his apartment.

He doesn't mind attending to small artist gatherings, maybe once in two or three months if he feels alright. These gatherings take place in one of the members' or a patrons' house, which is considerably small in terms of number of attendees and there is always chamber music. Thus, it's not as disturbing as the balls that he's been turning the invitations down for.

He prepares his white shirt, black waistcoat and fall-front trousers. He contemplates on wearing a cravat for a while and finally decides to put it on; rather than dealing with the awkward glances and gossip, he prefers spending three to six suffocating hours in it. In case of a rainy weather, which seems to be a high possibility considering the clouds gathering at the sky, Bokuto readies his cloak.

_ "It's time to light up the oil lamps. There goes my day, butchered." _ He sighs. Night falls pretty early and Bokuto does not fit into the 'early bird' category, thus he has less time to be productive compared to summer. He remembers he promised to eat decent tonight, now that the plans for tomorrow has changed, he prefers to spend the night at home resting, quickly gulping down some bread and cheese.

After cleaning his brushes and other tools for good, he lies on the bed; taking his charcoal, some piece of paper and a wooden, smooth drawing board with him. It's his undying habit to do one figure sketch and one rough portrait before sleeping. Yet another area he has to push himself; he has always found it cumbersome to draw figures. He is on worse terms with the portraits.

" _ I always fail to capture details, hidden under the skin... Every damn time, the expressions look so dull and empty, it's more pleasing to look at a stone than my sketches. _ "

As the charcoal gently slides through his fingers, Bokuto's eyelids flutter shut and he softly slides into the dreamland unintentionally. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing a historical piece so please please please go easy on me and provide feedback if there's something that really sticks out. I was anxious about the language problem; as much as I'd like to get the story going, I want to be accurate as well but don't want to be lost trying to be exact. The problem is, the story is set in Germany, 1800's and I write in English... That's why I decided to keep the language formal but not to dwell on the matter any deeper.
> 
> On the other hand, I'm definitely doing research on the inventions and clothes, universities/institutions and daily life so you can expect accuracy on those aspects (for example, gas stoves or pocket watches were already invented by that time).
> 
> A little disclaimer; I'm taking some of the events (as in the education part) from Friedrich's life to be on point historically, however Bokuto's not Friedrich himself.


	2. Abbey in the Oakwood

 

 

 

Waking up to another anxiety attack adds a ton on Bokuto's covers, making it extremely hard to get up.

 _"I have things I need to accomplish,"_ he tells himself. _"I have places to be."_

Yet, far from firing up his motivation, these thoughts only drift him further away. He notices he fell asleep last night and didn't put his board aside, his incomplete sketches scattered over the bed. Unfinished achievements always leave a bad taste in Bokuto's mouth, making his stomach turn.

_"At least the charcoal fell off on the floor, it would most surely make a mess in bed."_

His feet dangling from the side of the bed, Bokuto reaches for his glasses, resting on the night table, then takes a sip of water. Coldness of his slippers send a wake up call building up from the toes and finding its way through every fiber of his being, at which he normally would groan to protest loudly. However, for this instance, he appreciates the driving force.

_"I wasn't able to eat properly last night, maybe I should try breakfast."_

Warily, he drags his feet towards the kitchenette, his gaze skimming the surface of the interior, considering the options on what to eat. It will be either last night's menu or a soup he cooked two day— he closes the lid the moment he opens, a sour and toxic smell surrounds Bokuto's nostrils. He rushes to slide open the small window on his right before he gets nauseated anymore than he already feels.

_"Well it was a soup, now it needs to go down the drain."_

His arms slump down next to his body in defeat, now he is torn between throwing the pot altogether and getting a new one or dealing with the newly developed life form and washing it. Which one of it was more time consuming? Frankly, Bokuto was happy about the shape, size and material of his pot, it wasn't certain that he would easily find a replacement. He definitely had to search for it, that was the worst case scenario for a person like him. What if he were to be able to find a replacement, though? Would he be able to afford it? He had to pay a lot for the art supplies for the past months, he had priorities. Now that he mentioned art supplies, he was running out of thinner, he had to restock some. He needed to stop by his supplier. Did he really needed to go to academy today? It was the biggest trou—

_"Oh... Pot. I need to focus on the pot."_

He looks around himself, eyes clouded, still not able to get over the daze. He turns up the faucet, with an immediate struggle to open the lid, leave it under the water for soaking and hoping it will clean the biggest part by just overflowing into the sink, in the mean time escaping the kitchenette and closing the door behind him. He wouldn't be able to throw up with an empty stomach, he doesn't want to witness the scene either.

Finally, all the commotion dies and he's alone in his room, with only the sound of running water and daily clattering of the street fills his ears, accompanying the rays of sunlight peeping into the room, uninvited. Nerves calming at the warmth that light brings and the beauty of whitish dust particles, visibly dancing along between the rays, for the first time that morning, Bokuto takes a deep breath and exhales. He returns to his bed, gathering the scattered sketches and the board, putting them aside he makes the bed. Lightly shaking his shoulders to undress from his navy velvet robe with the help of gravity, he continues on taking the cream linen shirt and pants off.

Even by himself, he is uncomfortable with his nudity, that's why he tries to get dressed as fast as he can and in the furthest place from the mirror. Looking at his body in the mirror gives off a feeling like he is intruding on himself, a weird sense of obscenity causes short circuiting in his perception. He doesn't have the memory when he developed this state, nothing significant comes to mind.

He quietly slips into his white shirt and black trousers he readied yesterday. Before buttoning the sleeves, he opens the drawer of his nightstand. There is a bottle of jasmine scented oil essence he brought from Japan when he was 17, he likes to drop a little on his inner wrists when he visits somewhere. The aroma triggers something delicate, something familiar in him, eventually easing the tension. After he is done with the buttons, he puts the waistcoat on. He picks up the pocket watch from the table where he left it last night, it seems he is pretty early and will have time to stop by a restaurant to fill his stomach. Tucking the watch in the front pocket of his vest, he ties his cravat a little clumsily, reaches for the tailcoat and he's almost ready to go out. Though, he knows there is one last thing to be done.

Involuntarily, he nears the mirror on top of his dresser. His grayish white hair, with occasional black strands, fall on his forehead, tips barely shadowing his bright amber eyes. Thankfully he has straight hair, so he doesn't put much effort to tame them, though he seldom has to use hair wax to represent himself like a functioning member of the elite artist society in Berlin. He opens the top drawer, takes out a metal box and an ebony comb. Dipping his middle finger in the wax and scooping out some, he spreads it over his nimble and bony fingers, carefully parting his hair on the left and waxing his bangs to the side running his fingers through. Combing and securing his hair, he remembers to take his cloak and umbrella, since the weather's been turning sour for a while as clouds are gathering and frequently changing the shape of shadows formed on the pavement.

Nevertheless, the air is fresh, he recalls the small excursions in the woods back in Greifswald. It has certainly been a while since he’s been near to anywhere green. He savors the smell of rain in his 10 minutes long walk to the restaurant he visits when he doesn't feel like cooking. Not like he prepares complicated dishes; he either cooks some soup, maybe stew with potatoes and onions or buys simple ingredients like cheese, salami, olives and bread.

Streets are unusually crowded, or that may be just Bokuto feeling smothered in his clothes. One thing he particularly enjoys when he goes out or solely stares out from his window is women's clothing; though he feels better if he just watches from afar, rather than being in the commotion.

 _“Fashion is really a different form of art, truly amazing._ _The textures, the distinct movement of each different fabric, how sunshine dances at the tip of the skirts, the wind seeps in through the layers and make them sway along with its lightest touch. The way dresses fit women's bodies and reshaping them at the same time. It is refreshing on the eyes to see that hoop skirts, corsets, stomachers and periwigs I have always seen in 18th-century paintings disappeared, leaving their places in favor of a more comfortable and natural, high-waisted form. Now, clothes represent individuality and freedom, rather than class and wealth. Women still look majestic, it is Europe's understanding of aesthetic style after all. Just, the focus seems to shift from the form to fabric, balance in colors and accessories, as far as Bokuto can tell from observing. Which is kind of... fair?_  "

Bokuto cannot imagine wearing a corset, he is already struggling with his cravat in their first 10 minutes together.

He steps into the restaurant when the door is pulled open for him, a waiter takes his cloak and umbrella while another one directs him towards an empty table by the windowpane. Bokuto mumbles a hardly audible "Thank you." without an eye contact and with a hasty voice, declares that he prefers a rather secluded table if possible to the other waiter. He turns and raises brows as he inspects this gentlemen's features while Bokuto only notices now that he's recently started working here, the regulars know about his preference when it comes to picking out the table for him.

After he gets seated, he orders grilled sausage and kedgeree with steamed potatoes on the side. The Waiter bows in an overly polite way, then sharply turns on his heels walks towards the kitchen area.

Bokuto opens up the folded napkin in front of him, resting it on his knee while waiting for his food to be prepared. The restaurant is fairly spacious, has around fifteen tables inside, with only four being occupied today. The clatter inside is at a reasonable volume, Bokuto dares saying it's pleasant even. Without much thought, he reaches for the carafe filled with water that rests in the middle of the table however he stops himself now that he notices a waiter rushing towards his side to fill his glass for him.

_"Oh, customs."_

He cannot help but smile as he sips on the water, its temperature comforting his flushed cheeks caused by the sticky warmth tailing along humidity. He instantly inhales curry's distinct aroma in the air and sees the waiter carrying a tray, with his order on it.

"Would you like anything else, sir?"

Bokuto squeezes another "Thank you." as he tucks the corner of the napkin inside his collar. He reaches for his fork, yet the waiter apparently didn't get a proper response because he's still standing next to the table. Clearing his throat, he musters up to properly retort.

"No, " he raises his hand, gesturing a refusal. "that would be all, thank you."

"Very well, sir. Enjoy your meal and call for one of the waiters if you ever need anything or a refill for the water."

While waiter walks away to tend to another table, Bokuto freezes, fork dangling in between his fingers, eyes wide, blinking in confusion. Did he mentioned water out of habit or he sarcastically pointed out the incident just happened? Bokuto feels his chest tightening slightly at the chances of the latter scenario being the case. Was he belittled just because he reached for the carafe? It was a damned jug, what is the point of putting someone in distress over the simplest things? Isn't he a customer here? They have to treat him with their utmost respect. It is true that Bokuto is not the biggest patron of the restaurant, but still he is a member of the socie—

_"My food's getting cold."_

Now that he pays attention, handle of the fork is bent into a small curve, he's been applying quite the force between his fingers. His gaze shifts in front, to the plate. He feels bitter before even taking a bite, eating seems all the more absurd.

_"How did I even used to stomach food again..."_

Bokuto takes a look around, at other customers. Watching the way people eat, strangely, mesmerizes him. Gestures ever so sophisticated; almost like a dance sequence practiced on a daily basis. How they move the spoon in their soup, the way they mildly stick the tip of their tongues out and slide the fork on top rather than taking food in using their lips. Afterwards, the excessive stretching and puckering of the lip and cheek muscles accompanied by unnecessarily polite way of chewing.

 _"Even the tiniest movement is so extravagant.,"_  he exhales. Most probably, that's the reason why he is enchanted by it. _"One of the most frequent actions in human life, yet it's being done with the utmost effort and greatest acting."_

On the other hand, Bokuto presumably looks unrefined.

He shakes his head, with a tiny hope inside that maybe his worries will physically crumble apart. In big chunks, he shovels down the food, taking care of not spilling on the clothes. He finishes in time, wiping his hands and mouth with the napkin, he gets up to leave for the academy. The rain has started to fall on the cobblestone gently and street seems to be less crowded, people running from the not-so-sudden rain are coming into the restaurant to take a shelter.

It looks like the best time to leave. He drops a couple of shillings on the table, wears his cloak and nods to the waiter who wishes him a good day. Opening up the umbrella, he starts strolling down the pavement.

It takes nearly 20 minutes to reach the academy, reason why Bokuto dwells on whether to take a carriage or simply walk. He feels happy that he has chosen to buy boots. Sure, it is a pain wearing them during summer when the weather gets unbearably hot but they come in handy for these occasions. He votes in favor for walking in this debate with himself, he doesn't need to be in a hurry anyway.

*

“Oohhh Mr. Koutarou, welcome!”

Bokuto feels irked when he hears his first name. It's true he has been living abroad for so long that it has become his ‘homeland’ whether he likes it or not. However, until his departure from Japan, apart from his family, nobody called him Koutarou and later on in his life, he introduced himself as Bokuto until someone noticed that it was actually his surname. Which was not a frequent occurrence, so it could be said that he is still not used to it.

“Hello Mr. Rugen.”

Rugen nears Bokuto and reaches to pat his back as a friendly act, in a flash he remembers that the artist doesn't fancy to be touched, so he stops himself in mid-motion.

"So, how about some tea in my room and we can go over some details regarding paperwork. I also have some news for you."

Bokuto's eyes flicker with curiosity as they pass the main entrance and advance towards the said room. Bokuto finds the academy building so marvelous in the architectural sense; two very large stairs lead one towards the entrance where the building's decorated with huge marble pillars, as if the architect was influenced by the Pantheon. The building is pleasing during daytime too, however it becomes astonishing under the exterior lighting at the evening. Interior is no less admirable, the stone blue dome on top of the main hall is especially breath-taking, again, similar to the dome in Pantheon

_"Oculus, as it was called during the Roman Empire, is the round opening on top of the dome and it functioned as the "eye of the building". During the era, if my memory serves me right, Romans understood architecture very similar to human body in terms of its mechanics, structure and symmetry. Vitruvius was the author of De architectura, who connected the human body proportions to the proportions used in temple architecture. It was pretty understandable for that era since Roman people were still Pagans and believed the Gods were leaving visible traces of their existence in the mortal world. Roman emperors took great advantage of this understanding and built imperial monuments in the name of Gods all around to legitimize their sovereignty. Pantheon was yet another temple built for people to look, believe and obey. That's probably why they were so fixated and 'literal' on gaze and their surroundings."_

Rugen's lively voice drags Bokuto out of his journey to his days in training.

"Please drink your tea before it gets cold, then we can carry on regarding the necessities."

Bokuto silently nods as he imbibes the tea especially brewed for him. Rugen regards him as a valuable artist, in return Bokuto thinks he is a respectable man and a thoughtful one, at that. Normally, people slowly step back after they start to encounter his 'quirks' but Rugen pays attention to and respects his boundaries. That's why, in exchange, Bokuto can feel a little more assured and try to open up as much as he can.

"Uhm, I was curious about the news?" Bokuto reminds Rugen, in between his sips.

"Ah, yes yes. Impatient as ever Mister Koutarou! Well, it is beneficial for both of us to speed the process up, I am sure you're busy with another amazing work in progress. As much as I really wished to have you here during the opening, I also understand your situation, that is why I wanted to inform you. The reception your paintings are getting is splendid! As of now, one of them is sold, there are also other potential buyers. You have 3 commissions if you are willing to take up. Also..."

Rugen reaches for the small pile of letters on the desk.

"Three artist gatherings and one ball invitation. Attending some might be in your favor. "

"I will consider it."

"Here are the agreements you need to go over and sign. I might contact you and call you over, maybe once or twice in the following weeks. Please keep in mind."

Bokuto grabs the papers, adjusting his glasses, he hums as he skims over the text; which are mostly about how the money transaction will occur or the amounts that will be cut back by the academy.

"May I ask, Mister Koutarou, how are you doing? In need of anything?"

When they first met, Rugen's kindness struck Bokuto as merely insincere remarks, though in time, he realized that it was Rugen's character. He parts his lips to talk about the maintenance his house was in need. On a second thought, he has to come back here anyway, he decides to postpone the issue for another meeting and shakes his head to sides.

"Very well, you know my door is open for you if you ever need help. Would you like to tour the halls and see how your works are displayed?"

Rugen's smile is warm and prideful, without even looking around, Bokuto can tell he did a good job. They briefly went over the replacement before the exhibition, though Bokuto didn't care much for these kinds of details, he left the management in Rugen's hands.

He meets the president's dark blue eyes.

"Hm hm, I would like that. Do you have a quill that I can use?"

"Of course, here."

Rugen slides his writing set towards Bokuto and watches him while he glides the bright red quill on paper masterfully.

"Thank you very much." Rugen continued in a daze. "Would you like to tour alone or request me to accompany you?"

"I would prefer to be alone. You are already busy as it is, there is no need for me to be burdening you furthermore."

"If that is what you need, this will be all for today. Enjoy your exhibition and do not hesitate to request if you want anything changed. I will relay a note with Otto when needed."

"As always, thank you very much for your help. All the best.."

Bokuto gently shuts the huge mahogany door behind him after they shake hands and part ways for the while.

*

_"I don't know how am I supposed to feel, really."_

Bokuto exhales as he slowly walks in front of the walls, now covered with his paintings. He tries to see them in a new point of view, preferably like someone who've seen them for the first time but in the end, finds it impossible to do. He spent all this time, face to face, at times with disgust wrenching his guts, or with a gentle smile tucked into the corner of his lips. Now, as they are poised on those burgundy colored walls, he tries to decipher the visitors' expressions.

There are not many people inside, nearly ten people. Two of them seem like they are newlyweds. There is a family of 5 with kids running around, not really interested with anything rather than pulling each others' hair or clothes. The other three are three adolescent men, aimlessly wandering around, commenting on his works occasionally. Even though he is acknowledged amongst his peers, his face is not so publicly known as he doesn't fancy parties.  Apparently it has its perks, like now, being able to blend in without people noticing him.

He takes a couple of steps further in, a silhouette catches Bokuto's eye. He notices a man, sitting on one of the winged, velvet hassocks placed a bit far away from the paintings for visitors to rest. Even if he's sitting it's very much clear that he's tall, his shoulders wide and legs lean. He is wearing a double-breasted tailcoat with turned back cuffs, a high collar of velvet to match with a white shirt inside. He cannot see the other's waistcoat or cravat, as he is facing the man's back. However, he has light-colored pantaloons while his tailcoat is a bright pine green.

_"Even though the color is dark, still a bold choice for a tailcoat."_

Bokuto admits, giving the stranger his credit. His raven black hair suits the rest and his not-so-pale skin, as far as he can make it out of his hand resting beside him.

He watches the man from afar, expecting him to get up at some point, though he just sits there, without even a twitch in his beautiful posture. Was he sleeping, perhaps? It is surely an irrational thing to do, however, what is he doing, staring at the painting? Bokuto's curiosity gets fired up, as he decides to ask Rugen if he knows something about the stranger.

He turns on his heels and hurriedly walks towards Rugen's room, though he doesn't need to walk further as they meet halfway. Rugen's bafflement is visible on his face.

"Oh, Mister Koutarou! Perhaps, are you unsatisfied with anything you see?"

"No, not that. Everything is perfect." Bokuto tries to catch his breath, his sentences getting interrupted with light panting. "Do you happen to know who that man is?"

They walk back together to the main hall and Bokuto points towards the area where he just saw the man, yet the hassock is empty and he is nowhere to be seen.

"Which man?" Rugen asks.

"Uh, he was sitting across, on that hassock there. N-never mind, he left in the end." Bokuto stutters, getting nervous at the thought of being misunderstood.

Rugen hums at the comment and then claps his fingers enthusiastically.

"Perhaps you mean a tall, dark haired man? Sitting in front of your Monk by the Sea?"

Eyes wide at how much he knew without even seeing the man, Bokuto eagerly nods his head in affirmation.

"Sadly, I do not know the gentlemen. I do know this, however, he comes at the academy and sits in front of that particular painting for nearly 3 hours every day, since the exhibition opened. His built is considerably large, he is hard to miss. The comment holds true especially for the ladies."

Bokuto's gaze shifts across the hall and meets his painting, his mind full of questions and awkward scenarios. While trying to shoo them out of his mind, Rugen continues.

"Would you like me to investigate and get some information for you, Mister Koutarou?"

His eyes trail back to meet Rugen's, who has a mischievous glint inside his own. It is true that his build and reason for sitting in front of his painting intrigued Bokuto, however, he doesn't want anyone to carry information for his sake.

"No, thank you." He mumbles. "It was a momentay concern."

"If you say so..." Rugen retorts, his enthusiasm dying at Bokuto's stillness.

"I'm indebted to your marvelous work as always, Mister Rugen. Please take care."

Rugen accompanies Bokuto until the entrance and watches him walk down the cobblestone, rain falling hard on his black, wide umbrella.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhm, yeah. I know this is not your usual BoKuroo story. Bokuto's character came out like this after I thought about the one he has in canon. He's so energetic, his brain is always on the move just like his body. He's so emotional and wise beyond his age. Not the #1 maybe, but talented and hardworking enough to be in the top 5, still growing. And on top of it all, one of his biggest trait is, he is so expressive. We get to see him during barbecue, engaging in different types of conversations with almost everyone! Screaming out loud how he feels or he doesn't hold back on the commentary without being rude. So I wondered; what happens if you leave everything the same, but take away his expressiveness?
> 
> He'll still be wise, emotional, perceptive. He'll see everything, feel everything, be talented, love and care about the people around him, yet he won't be able to express himself verbally or through physical contact. I imagine this would be the heaviest burden for Bokuto. All of these 'feelings', welling up inside him, will be stuck behind a glass where he is constantly alone, alienated. Being able to see it through, however not being able to reach out. Being forced to channel everything through his brush. 
> 
> That's the feeling I'm trying to construct his character on. I -most probably- suck at it, so I wanted to clear it up.


	3. Landscape with the Rainbow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One step closer to our mysterious man.

_"Weather's really strange... As a concept, I mean."_

Bokuto is amazed at how his life is so easily bent into a shape by the changes in weather. Even though he is annoyed at being an easy target of such a trivial matter, he's definitely not unhappy that the past week was rather warm and sunny. Be it the texture of the usual sandwiches he makes for breakfast, the way he walks inside his house, the time he spends gazing out of the window, the way he mixes colors, almost bending the borders of the color palette he decided for the altar commission; everything, every tiny detail in Bokuto's routine drastically changes and he doesn't know what to make out of it. He doesn't intend to question either, his mood is heightened due to these changes. He's able to sleep better, work better and his appetite seems to be getting better too. 

Though, considering the season, it won't last too much. In that sense, Bokuto has little time to consider moving temporarily to the atelier. He reopens the letter Rugen sent yesterday with Otto, Bokuto is asked again to stop by the museum. Words escape his lungs like a sigh. 

"At least, going out this time is convenient for me. Mr. Rugen could arrange repairmen for the windows."

He straightens himself on the chair, stretching his aching limbs. Rolling up his sleeves, he takes his brush again. There's still two hours before he starts preparing to leave the house. With the recent motivation, it's more than enough for Bokuto to finish some part of the background he planned completing for today. He has two months ahead to wrap up the piece, if he could keep this level of productivity, or even some part of it because he is sure it is a delusional wish, altar would be done without a need for extension. Bokuto shakes his head with the hopes of negative thoughts physically crumbling out of his system, tapping and sliding the brush in a more rhythmic motion than before. During times like these, Bokuto feels like he's levitating, an enthralling shiver envelopes his whole being. His pace keeps increasing, in harmony with his breathing, the only time this pile of flesh he calls body dances with joy. A delicate smile settles on his finely shaped lips as the nimble fingers vigorously waltz over the palette, forming the very first traces of what will emerge on the canvas. Colors transform into one another, displaying a continuous spectrum, then channeling onto the stretched fabric to portray ray of lights shining upon the hill.

Dazed from the rush of blood in his veins, Bokuto doesn't realize he is almost late for the meeting at the museum. Groaning in a displeased manner, he quickly cleans his brush and hands. Taking off his woolen cardigan, he ponders whether to wear the tailcoat. He sticks his head out of the window, weather seems like it won't turn sour, so he decides leaving the cloak and wearing just the tailcoat. He doesn't care for his hair, instead he grabs the sketch book he stitched and the metal box he keeps he charcoal in and rushes towards he commotion out in the streets that's probably the outcome of the nice weather. 

Rugen welcomes Bokuto with his never-diminishing smile and enthusiasm. They quickly move towards Rugen's room where Bokuto feels enchanted before even entering by the smell emitting from the room and filling the hallway. Next to the recently brewed coffee, there is a pile of croissants and some jam with two servings on a small coffee table right in front of the large window. Despite having a dark color, with the sunshine impertinently barging in, the coffee glistens as if pearls are gliding over its surface. One can easily distinguish the steam coming out of the croissants. Right then, Bokuto is struck with a feeling he cannot quite comprehend. 

" _Is it the effect of the color composition in front of me? Mr. Rugen's room is furnished quite elegantly. Artistically speaking, the integrity is fantastic. The table prepared for us fits into the rest so nicely that I wouldn't be able to touch and break this perfection. What else... Oh, Mr. Rugen is smiling at me... I should smile back. I wonder if his reactions contribute to this indescribable feeling inside me..."_

They sit across each other at the coffee table. Rugen seems more chipper than their last meeting, he immediately starts inquiring Bokuto about his daily life.

"How is your commission going, Mr. Koutarou?" 

"Thank you for asking, I'm doing fine," begins Bokuto, feeling this may be the perfect opportunity to bring up the problems about the house, "though..."

"Oh! What is the matter, please tell me!" Rugen suddenly has a curious expression, he sits straight while gesturing Bokuto to eat or drink if he pleases. Bokuto nods as a thank you, takes a sip from the gorgeously smelling coffee to clean his throat.

"It's about my place," Bokuto utters, "there has been some issues with..."

"I hope it's not the landlord? He can be mean sometimes."

"No, he's been treating me kindly," the painter corrects urgently. "My windows are in need of repair. Could I trouble you with finding me some handymen to fix them?"

"It's not like Bokuto to ask of Rugen's help this openly, so he feels nervous. To his luck, Rugen doesn't take time to think and leave him alone, struggling with doubts.

"When would you want them to be at your place? I remember you mentioning not waking up too early... Am I wrong?"

"You're correct," he affirms, in a shy manner. "However, there's another issue that bothers me."

"Is it something you can share with me? I'd be glad if I can help in any way," Rugen tries to encourage.

"I don't know how long the work will take and I have my deadline in two months. I'm afraid that it might not be possible for me to work at home." Bokuto's voice drops at the end, feeling shameful for asking too much, being a bother for a kind person who offers his help no matter what. 

"Oh, that. You're correct." Rugen strokes his blond beard in thought for a while. He takes a bite from his croissant before continuing. 

"You know there are ateliers you can work alone at the secondary building but then you will need to come here everyday, this won't be an option I assume. It might take two days to move your belongings and furniture but I can find a place you can temporarily accommodate, so you can work in comfort. What do you think?"

"I- I will take the atelier, if you let me."

Surprise on Rugen's face is far from being subtle.

"But... Are- are you sure?"

"Yes, I believe I am."

"Then... How about we arrange a bed in atelier, " Rugen suddenly sheers. "Heating won't be a problem and I can help you with meals, three times a day? This way, you won't need to commute. I know you... how should I put it... rather than enjoying... you're used to being solitary. So I know it's important to you. How about it?"

"The best outcome I can imagine, " Bokuto mumbles in response, averting his eyes. "I really feel indebted to you."

"Come on, " Rugen chants in high spirits, "please don't feel bad when you're in need of my help. I just want to make sure you can comfortably continue producing art in your way. Now, that our problem is solved, let us enjoy these fresh croissants please. Have as much as you want."

Again, Bokuto nods in understanding and gratitude. He has new ball invitations and one potential commission, Rugen informs Bokuto that his fame is growing every single day. Anyone who visits, apparently asks about Bokuto, trying to get clues about his physical appearance. Amber eyes locked on the tiny movements of the black liquid in its cup, Bokuto listens to Rugen in silence and grief, since it's almost impossible for him to put himself under the spotlight. Not even for Rugen. 

Both men continue their little chat until Rugen has to leave for a meeting. After wearing his cloak, he ensures Bokuto once more that he will take care of the issues during the day so he should rest his mind. They bid farewell to each other and now Bokuto is all alone in Rugen's room. His gaze aimlessly wanders on his surroundings until he can decide what to do. 

_"I should just check the time to choose either to go home or the neighboring park."_

It's noon, around the same time when he last visited the academy, saw his own paintings and that...

"Strange man, " he whispers to himself, "I wonder if he's here again."

With timid footsteps, he furthers down the hall that leads towards the main area Bokuto's works are presented. A part of him desires for the man to be there so he can observe more; study his posture, outfit, expression if possible and maybe gain  some information about his motives. On the other hand, this situation unsettles Bokuto, he is not sure why he cares so much about this particular man and go out of his way. 

_"It's what he makes me think about. I am curious what another person sees in my art."_

Even though Bokuto kind of expects to see the stranger, he still fins himself surprised finding him in the same spot. With his ever-preserved posture, burnt sienna tailcoat and his messy hair contrary to the order in his clothing is the same as ever. Bokuto sits on one of the hassocks far behind, takes out his charcoal and paper. Once again, Bokuto is amazed at this man's valor for his choice in tailcoat color. It fits his lightly tanned skin so perfectly, underlines his physique and marvelous posture so subtly, one gets confused why do they feel like they've been struck by lightning. His hand finds its place on the paper where it belongs and starts moving in circles, slowly but surely.

In the mean time, he imagines the stranger's reactions. How would he react to it if Bokuto were to go up there and sit next to him? Or actually talk to him? Maybe show him the sketch he's been doing? Ask him why does he look at this painting so intensely or what does he see in these works, in general? Questions like these raid Bokuto's mind and blur his vision. When he comes back to his senses he notices the stranger getting ready to leave the academy. Even though he'd like to sketch more, Bokuto just watches him getting up, straightening his clothes, getting on his hat from the hassock and turning on his heels. Their eyes find each other amongst people and for the first time, Bokuto sees the man's facial features.

_"Thin lips veiling all the words that's been waiting to be said, locking away every possible interaction. Eyes clouded, as if they only let only certain colors and shapes in. What form does the outcome have after all this course? No one knows because he seems so distant, almost from an outer world. His sun-kissed skin is practically the proof of his experience, a wisdom that can only be attained through thorough travelling and overcoming struggles on unknown lands. He resembles those men who have infinite stories to tell but this one chooses to stay silent. Makes one wonder what lies beneath those thick layers of clothes? What kind of troubles roam in his veins or which of his past failures crawl under his skin at night? I have nothing but scraps of what-ifs, ideas crumbled up into pieces. Do they even make sense?"_

After placing the hat on his head, the stranger lightly nods as to greet Bokuto, breaking the eye contact and leaves the exhibition hall while Bokuto just freezes with an unfinished sketch in his hand.

*

Everything goes according to plan and Bokuto's necessary belongings next to all his painting tools are moved to the atelier. Renovations will took two weeks since there are a lot of other problems Bokuto's been ignoring, however the atelier is big enough for him to spend his days in comfort. Also, it's more comfortable to spend lunchtime with Rugen rather than going to the loud and cramped diner, Bokuto is more than glad about this arrangement. He practices before lunch, then heads over to the main building to meet Rugen, they have lunch together and every single time Bokuto peeks at the hall, the traveler (that's what he calls him in his mind now) is there. 

At the end of his first week, without being able to hold himself anymore, Bokuto decides to change this situation. Taking a huge breath, exhaling it rather loud and gaining awkward looks from the passersby, he timidly walks towards the hassock the traveler is seated. Upon noticing Bokuto, the traveler straightens his legs, taking his hat onto his lap and making space for Bokuto to sit, then continues to watch the painting. Without making a sound, Bokuto sits next to the man, his brain drowned in the sea of anxiety, hands sweating from the hesitation. Only one question comes up to his mind.

_"Do you really see anything, when you look at it?"_

Nevertheless, the actual words never meet the real world.

 

 


End file.
